Fair Play (37 page)

“Crazy bitch,” one man called after her.

She was walking to save her sanity. She was certain if she walked long enough, she would begin to feel numb. That was preferable to the despair she carried inside her. If she stopped moving, she would be forced to confront the painful truth head on: that deep down in her heart, she'd known all along that Reese's feelings for her weren't genuine. She'd forced herself to believe otherwise, because she was so determined to make all her girlhood fantasies about big city romance come true. She'd thought herself too smart for such delusion, but clearly that wasn't case.

She was as capable of self-deception as the next woman.

And she'd let a good man, maybe the right man, slip through her fingers.

She'd been out for more than three hours when it started to rain. She walked anyway, not caring that her drenched clothing clung to her body or that her hair lay pasted to her head. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other until she became so exhausted she couldn't move. At that point she would call a cab, go home and collapse into the oblivion of sleep.

She walked two more hours.

Eventually, she forced herself to take in her whereabouts, noting she was back in midtown. A quick check of her watch revealed it was a little after midnight. Surprising herself, she walked to Ty and Janna's.

The night doorman didn't want to let her in.

Theresa dug into her purse and produced her business card, pointing out Janna's name on it, too, along with the name of their company. The doorman reluctantly capitulated. She was let inside and he buzzed upstairs. Looking like he couldn't quite believe it, he told her she was cleared to go up to Ty and Janna's apartment.

They were both waiting at the door in their bathrobes. Janna looked sick with worry as she hustled her inside.

“Oh my God, Theresa.” Janna quietly closed the door and asked Ty to get her some towels as well as his spare bathrobe. When he disappeared, Janna reached up and touched Theresa's cheek. “Talk to me, honey.”

Theresa began shivering. “I'm sorry,” she whispered to Janna, though she wasn't quite sure what she was sorry for. She forced herself to focus. “I'm sorry to disturb you so late at night.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Ty reappeared with the towels and bathrobe and Janna led Theresa to the bathroom. “Dry off and change. I'll go put on some water for tea. What kind do you want?”

“Got any cyanide instead?”

Janna didn't react.

“That was a joke, Jan.” She closed the bathroom door.

Her clothing was so wet it was dripping onto the floor, making little puddles on the marble. Theresa stole a look at herself in the mirror. No wonder the doorman didn't want to let her in; she looked like a madwoman, her supposedly waterproof mascara a dark, angry bruise beneath her eyes.

Now that she was no longer moving, she began to feel. Cold. Humiliated. Angry. How much time had she wasted feeding false hopes? How much work would she have to do now to rebuild her self-esteem?
Dr. Gardner's going to have a field day with this,
she thought ruefully as she donned the oversized bathrobe, tying its sash tightly around her waist.

She wanted to hide in the bathroom.

If she went out into the kitchen, she'd have to talk about what had happened, and she wasn't sure she could do that. But then she thought:
Why else would you have shown up here, if not to talk?

Gathering her dripping clothes into a bundle, she reemerged. Janna took them from her and promptly loaded them into the dryer. Then she forced Theresa to sit down on the couch. Ty was nowhere to be seen.

“Where's your husband?”

“He's in the bedroom, giving us our privacy.”

Theresa ducked her head, grateful.

“Talk to me, Terry. What's going on?”

Just as she had in Reese's office, Theresa simply blinked. She didn't know where to begin. With her conversation with Reese? With the realization she'd had at the funeral? With how safe she'd felt in Michael Dante's arms the first night of the wake, when he'd followed her out into the parking lot? For some reason, the image of him kneeling with the price tag stuck on the bottom of his shoe flashed in her mind and she laughed.

“Theresa?” Janna asked, alarmed.

“Don't worry, I'm not losing my mind,” Theresa assured her. She peered down at her bare feet. They were waterlogged, shriveled. She knew she had to stop stalling. “Reese was using me,” she began.

She lifted her eyes to her best friend's. Like a dam breaking, the words started pouring out of her, furious, unstoppable. She told Janna every horrible detail, from his reluctance to touch her to the details of his wooing plan. Janna listened intently, requesting Theresa pause only once, when she went to the kitchen to fetch their tea. Theresa talked until her jaw hurt and there was nothing left to say.

And when she was done talking, she began to cry.

Blowing her nose into tissue after tissue, she wondered if it were possible to run out of tears. She'd cried more in the last four days than all the days of her life combined. Whether she was crying for her father or herself, she didn't know. Maybe it didn't even matter. “I'm sorry,” she apologized again, winding down.

“Don't be,” Janna chided. “You've had terrible emotional shocks on two fronts.” She clucked her tongue disgustedly. “That slimeball. I thought he was up to something.” She put her arm around Theresa's shoulder, giving it a loving squeeze.

Theresa's bruised heart swelled. It would have been so easy for Janna to say “I told you so.” But she didn't, and Theresa knew she wouldn't, because that's not what true friends did, and Theresa had never, ever had a truer friend than Janna MacNeil.

“I'm such an idiot,” Theresa lamented tearfully.

“No, you're
not.
”

“Yes, I
am,
” Theresa insisted. “Only an idiot would have let Michael Dante go. Only an idiot would have chosen style over substance.”

Janna reached forward for her teacup. “It's not too late.”

“Yes, it is. He's got a girlfriend.”

“He does?”

“Yes,” Theresa said, tearing up again. “Didn't you see her at the reopening? A little redhead, even shorter than you.” She winced. “Sorry, that was a really mean thing to say.”

Janna waved her hand dismissively, asking, “Are you
sure
she's his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” she said miserably. “I saw them canoodling in the corner.” The memory still smarted.

“Hmmm.” Janna contemplated this. “Well, maybe it's not serious. Who knows?” She took a sip of tea. “I think you should call him.”

“Oh, right.” Theresa shook her head. “And say what? ‘Sorry I jerked you around, but guess what? I've finally come to my senses and realized what a great guy you are. Can I have a second chance?' ”

Janna's gaze was steady. “Why not?”

“Because, believe it or not, even after this debacle with Reese, I do have some pride.”

“I think you're being ridiculously stubborn,” Janna declared.

“Would you call Ty if you'd treated him like garbage
and
you knew he was involved with someone else?”

Janna looked uncomfortable. “Well . . .”

“The answer is no, you wouldn't. I think I have to hop on board the reality train, and you should join me.”

“But Michael still cares about you. It was all over his face at the wake and funeral.”

“That was kindness you saw, Janna.” Theresa put her head in her hands. “Michael's a good person. He saw I was in pain and he wanted to help. End of story.”

“I don't know,” Janna rebutted.

“I do.” She looked up at Janna with pain in her eyes. “I blew it.”

She regarded Theresa sympathetically. “So now what?”

“I throw myself into work and contemplate joining a religious order?”

“Don't give up on men. They're not all bad, you know.” Janna motioned with her head towards the bedroom.

Theresa smiled wanly. “I know.” She craned her neck in the direction of Janna's laundry room. “How much longer, do you think?”

“It's after one in the morning, Ter. Why don't you just crash in the spare bedroom?”

“Are you sure?” Theresa asked. “I've been enough of an imposition already.”

“Of course I am. I want you to sleep in, too. In fact, I think you should take the rest of the week off. It's only three days. Terrence and I can pick up the slack.”

Work. Theresa's heart sank as Reese's final, vituperative words came back to her. “We need to talk about the business, Jan.”

“Not tonight.” Janna stood. “Don't get up if you hear movement in the kitchen around five-thirty or so. Ty's got an early morning flight to Ottawa for the first round.” She leaned over and kissed Theresa's cheek. “Please try to get some rest. And don't ever apologize for coming to me when you need help. You're my best friend.”

With that, she disappeared into the bedroom. Theresa finished her tea and headed for the spare room. Her head barely touched the pillow before she was asleep.

 

 

Shoot it! Shoot
it!

Shit.
Michael's heart sank along with the rest of the players' on the bench as Ottawa's goalie poke-checked Paul van Dorn before he could get off a shot. With three minutes left in the game, the teams were tied at 1-1. A quick glance around the Corel Centre revealed it was filled to capacity, the crowd holding its collective breath as the clock wound torturously down. Two nights before, in the first game of the first round, the Blades had humiliated Ottawa on its home ice, 3-0. But tonight, Ottawa had come out battling. Michael and the fourth line had seen only spot action.

He watched as the third line, still on the ice, cycled the puck in the offensive zone. For a split second, it looked as if one of Ottawa's defensemen might wrest the puck from right winger Barry Fontaine. But Fontaine maintained control, flipping the puck behind the net, van Dorn skating in after it. The blade of his stick had barely touched it when—BAM!—he was boarded by the thuggish Ottawa defensemen Ulf Torkelson, one of the chippiest players in the NHL. Van Dorn's head snapped back, and then he was down. At first there was silence. Then, half rising off the bench, Michael and the rest of the Blades began screaming.

“That's a hit from behind!” Michael shouted.

“What are you, fucking blind?!” Ty yelled at the ref.
“Call that!”

Play had stopped, but Samuelson hadn't been penalized. In fact, he took the opportunity of van Dorn's injury to slowly skate by the Blades bench.

“Looks like the little rookie isn't so pretty now, eh?” he jeered.

“You're a dead man!” Michael shouted.

“What are you gonna do, hit me with a spaghetti pot, Mikey?” Samuelson taunted, circling back to Ottawa's defensive zone.

Out on the ice, two of the Blades trainers were helping the dazed van Dorn to his feet and then to the dressing room, his bloodied face covered in a towel. Ty, who had been warned he was in serious danger of a bench minor, tapped Michael on the shoulder. The fourth line skated out onto the ice.

New York won the face-off, and just as Michael had envisioned, the puck slid into the corner. Both he and Torkelson hustled after it, Michael leaving his feet and slamming into the big Swede with everything he had. But before Michael could get to the loose puck, Torkelson elbowed him in the face with all his might, sending a blinding pain cracking down Michael's cheekbone.

Retaliating, Michael shoved his gloves in Torkelson's face. “C'mon, big man! Let's see how tough you are face-to-face!”

A scrum of players from both sides quickly formed around the two of them as the linesmen fought their way into the pack, pushing Michael and Torkelson apart.

“Both of you! Out of here!” the helmeted referee yelled at them. “Number Eight, Ottawa, two minutes for elbowing. Number Thirty-three, New York, two minutes for roughing.”

Michael lost it. “If you're not gonna keep him honest, then we have to!” he yelled at the ref. “What, you didn't SEE the hit? Were you too busy getting ANOTHER DOUGHNUT?”

The ref ignored him, and Michael was forced to skate, glaring, to the penalty box. The left side of his face felt like it was on fire, the flesh throbbing and swelling as he sat there. Play resumed with the teams skating four on four. A minute later, Ottawa scored, putting them up 2 to 1 with less than a minute left.

The horn blew signifying end of play, and Michael bolted from the penalty box, heading straight for Torkelson. But he was blocked by one of the linesmen who grabbed him by the arms.

“Game's over, Mikey. Let it go for tonight.”

“You fucking coward!” Michael shouted past the linesman at Torkelson. “
No way
am I done with you!”

“Mikey, get off the ice!” the referee yelled.

Frowning with dismay, Michael jerked his arm out of the linesman's grasp while Torkelson disappeared into Ottawa's locker room.

“You need your eyes checked,” Michael muttered to the referee, skating off the ice. His left cheek had ballooned up so far, so fast, that he could almost see it in front of his left eye. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he went to join his teammates.

 

 

“How's the face
feel, Mike?”

Michael tried not to blink as Dr. Linderman shone a penlight deep into his eyes, their noses close enough to touch. Obviously he was worried about another concussion. Michael wasn't. Any pain he was feeling was in his face.